


new faces

by Hnybnny



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: Gen, characters to be added as they appear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2020-02-26 17:42:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18721858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hnybnny/pseuds/Hnybnny
Summary: Chaldea is home to many Heroic Spirits from all walks of life and legend.Not all of them have been officially documented, however.(A series of drabbles involving various original servants/fanservants in the frame of Fate/Grand Order)





	1. The Alchemist

“Summoning… engaged.” Leonardo da Vinci called out from her place at the myriad of controls in the large, open room. Machinery whirred and sputtered, as the Last Master of Chaldea and Mash Kyrelight stood at a good distance, waiting with bated breath. The light, as always, was blinding- they shielded their eyes. The Master has to admit that no matter how many times they underwent this, the excitement at the potential of a new face in Chaldea never seemed to subside. 

The glittering smoke and golden haze of the ritual quickly dissipated to better reveal the summoned Servant stood on the platform. All assembled let out a breath they didn’t know they had been holding, thankful for a successful operation. 

The figure there was that of a man, tall, lanky- and almost unhealthily thin. Dark hair was messily tied back, with tired grey eyes peering back at them through long bangs. His face was of medium-age, perhaps a tad on the younger side but made older by rather gaunt features and a short scruffy beard. 

His clothes were of an old style that was seemingly Victorian, yet truly… not. He wore a frumpled, untucked dress shirt with a larger collar; on top of that a seemingly plain dark leather waistcoat. He had a loosened yellow cravat barely pinned together by a small iron medallion bearing a strange symbol, and similar iron pieces- with different symbols- made up the buttons of the waistcoat. A simple belt around his waist held a handful of strange pouches and vials of varying sizes and contents, as well as a large, thick, ancient-looking book bound carefully in a series of straps to his right side. His worn light brown trousers were singed in places, but otherwise whole down to where they poofed out at the bottom as they were shoved into his antique belted riding boots. He had thick cuffed leather gloves that came up to his mid-forearm, but perhaps what was most noticeable of all about the man was his left arm. The limb, partially revealed by his rolled-up shirt sleeves, was withered and blackened, spiderwebbed by strange golden veins that seemed to glimmer and glow, albeit faintly. 

As his inquiring and wandering gaze eventually landed upon the Master, his eyes seemed to brighten considerably and he smiled gently, wrinkles forming at the outside corners of his lids. 

“Are you the Master who has summoned me?” His voice carried with it a soft but clearly French accent, as he asked the simple first words of nearly every Servant.  

The Last Master of Chaldea nodded simply. 

Seemingly pleased by this, the Servant then crossed one arm in front of his midsection and the other behind his back as he bowed, deeply and gracefully, to his Master.

“Allow me to introduce myself, then. I am-”

“Nicolas!” 

The sudden interruption of the ever-cheerful voice of Chaldea’s resident flower magus startled those present, as they collectively glanced back to see the man himself who piped up leaning against the doorway of the summoning room. Now with the attention on him- the way he liked it- he pushed off the metal and strode towards them, dramatically throwing his arms wide in greeting. 

The newly summoned Servant narrowed his eyes, gaze sharpened. “Merlin,” he simply spat in reply.

“I see you’ve finally come, perhaps, to attempt to seize the title of Grand Caster from yours truly?” 

“Honestly? No.” The man- apparently named Nicolas- snorted. Merlin’s visage fell into a frown for a brief, almost-missed second.  

The Master suddenly cut in before the mage could retort. “Do you know each other?” 

“Unfortunately.” The new Servant deadpanned. 

Merlin then appeared by his side and threw an arm around his shoulders like they were best friends, to which the man visibly flinched. “Of course, Master!” Merlin pulled him uncomfortably close. Nicolas found himself extremely interested in staring at his shoes, but if the clenched fists and jaw were anything to go by, it was simply as a way to distract himself from the Magus of Flowers’ antics. “This is my immediate inferior, and best friend,-“

Nicolas laughed hollowly, but he went ignored. 

Merlin paused briefly for effect, then motioned to his ‘friend’  in an overly grandiose flourish. “Nicolas Flamel!” 

From his spot behind the controls alongside Da Vinci and other staff, where he was sitting idle and bored in a hard metal chair, Sherlock Holmes quickly perked up. “... The alchemist?” He questioned, quite rhetorically so, and raised his eyebrows. He seemed perhaps a little awe-struck, but it was hard to tell. Mash made silent note that, even as hard as it was to impress the detective, this man managed to have done it if Sherlock’s reaction to the name alone was anything to go by. 

Nicolas took that recognition as his cue to less-than-gently shove Merlin away, where the magus tripped backwards on Fou- not-so-coincidentally in the right place at the right time- and awkwardly toppled off the summoning platform. Da Vinci attempted to, with moderate success, pass her laugh off as a cough. The Master was significantly less successful. 

The Servant took another, more shallow bow in front of his new Master. “Indeed- as has already been said, my True Name is Nicolas Flamel. Scribe, famed immortal, and alchemist of legend. And as of the moment, a Servant of the Caster class, as well.” 

“And bastard,” said Merlin, splayed out on the floor, but he was ignored. Now entirely devoid of the attention he desired, the magus would silently pull himself to his feet and trudge back out the door, but not before grumbling something  _ very _ impolite in French under his breath. Mash shot him a glare. 

“Wow…” breathed the Master, and they excitedly hopped in place. “It’s an honor to have you here, Mr. Flamel-“

“Nicolas is just fine.” The alchemist corrected with a soft smile. 

“Nicolas! Let me show you around, yeah?” The Master reached forward and took Nicolas’ hand- the healthy one- in their own, and began tugging him towards the door. He threw a helpless look at Da Vinci, and was only met with a stare that silently said ‘ _ All new Servants have to deal with this, you’ll be fine _ .’ He was, however, smart enough not to openly protest. 

The hydraulic door swished shut behind the duo, and the Master thankfully let go of his hand. Either they had a painfully strong grip, or Flamel was much more frail in this form than he remembered… It had been a long time since he had been summoned, after all. In a traditional Grail War, nothing short of his original writings would would do to serve as a catalyst, but Chaldea’s system was obviously different. 

As they walked down the long hallway together, the Master chattering away and Nicolas attempting to follow everything they said- easier said than done, but he had to admit that his new Master’s youth and childlike innocence was a much appreciated breath of fresh air. God above, he could already feel his paternal instinct kicking in. Ah, if only his dear Perenelle could see him now… how she would laugh!

“What was that Merlin said about taking his Grand Caster title?” The Master suddenly asked, now that said magus was thankfully absent and they were alone. Obviously, they were more attentive then they let on. 

“Hmm? Oh, technically, I have always been third in line to be the Grand Caster if the other two- Solomon and Merlin- are ever indisposed. Considering the former has been, ah…  _ you know _ , I believe that makes me second now.” The man shrugged his lean shoulders. “Although, that means next to nothing considering Merlin is entirely incapable of dying.” His tone seemed laden with both annoyance and tired resignation. 

The Master was silent for a moment, thinking, before piping up again. “So that must mean you’re pretty powerful, yeah?”

Nicolas Flamel nodded. “I suppose I am- but, obviously, not at  _ all _ in combat.” He grimaced. “I’m a simple Frenchman, little more- certainly no King of Mages or incubus magi.” 

“But you’re in the top three for a Grand Servant position!” 

Sighing, Nicolas stopped and turned fully towards the Master. “Tell me- how much do you know about me?” He asked simply, pocketing his gloved hands. 

Now it was the Master’s turn to shrug. “Uh, you’re an alchemist. Could turn stuff into gold with the philosopher’s stone. That’s about it.” They trailed off, then brightened. “Oh! And you were in that one Harry Potter movie.” 

“The wh-?” Flamel began, confused, but then decided against it, shaking his head and waving their words off with a hand. “Nevermind that last part. You described my legend accurately, albeit in the mostly painfully simplistic terms- yet that is only a portion, a fragment of what  _ is _ the man called Nicolas Flamel. I created the philosopher’s stone, yes- it can turn base metals into gold or common crystals into precious stones. It can also create homunculi entirely by its own power, and most importantly serve as an elixir of life, granting rejuvenation and immortality to both beast and man. It was the single most sought goal in alchemy for centuries. It is the central creation of my craft, symbolizing true perfection and enlightenment.” A wry smile grew on the man’s thin lips. “... And I  _ alone _ succeeded. The Magnum Opus, the Great Last Work, come to fruition by my efforts. A feat thought to only be achieved by the gods themselves. Master, you must understand, I am not  _ an _ alchemist.”

The Master’s confused look only seemed to make his smile grow wider. He leaned in close, and the Master could see his tired eyes brighten with the light of an excited genius. Flamel then lowered his voice to almost a whisper.

“I am  _ The _ Alchemist.”


	2. The Sniper

Your name is Colonel Sebastian Moran.

You are, or _were_ , the second most dangerous man in all of London.

And you really, _really_ do not like Sherlock Holmes.

Even thinking about that damnable detective sparked a fire in your heart and anger in your gut, but there was something else there, too. Something foreign to you- a small but persistent sense of uneasiness.

You said as much quite suddenly one day while in the Chaldean quarters that you shared with one Professor James Moriarty.

“I don’t trust Holmes.”

You both sat opposite each other in overstuffed armchairs, not unlike you had in life in the unassuming London flat that the Napoleon of Crime claimed as a base of operations. You were puffing away at a cigar, until your outburst having been silently stewing in your thoughts with a furrowed blond brow. James Moriarty was engrossed in a hefty book, occasionally picking up a fountain pen and scribbling some words and formulae on a notepad sitting on the mahogany side-table to his right without breaking his gaze from the pages.

Your employer glanced over the top of his book and wordlessly quirked an eyebrow at you, moreso at the abruptness of your statement than the actual content of it.

Now having broken the peaceful silence like a pane of glass, you continued with a huff, anxiously and unconsciously rolling your cigar between your fingers as you did so. “How in the bloody _hell_ does he get to manifest on his own, without a Master? There ain’t a Grail War goin’ on- at least not a real one- and that’s the only way Rulers pop up.” You shook your head and grit your teeth. “But that’s not what boggles me the most. The hoppin’ from Singularity to Singularity, showin’ up in Camelot and Shinjuku. It… It just doesn’t sit right with me, boss.”

You had a habit of flip-flopping between calling the mastermind _‘Professor’_ and _‘boss’_ , but unbeknownst to you, Moriarty had made silent note of the fact that you more heavily used the latter when angry or otherwise stressed. He sighed, and quietly closed his book after placing a slip of paper between its pages as a marker, setting it on the side-table. He then folded his gloved hands in front of him atop his crossed legs, seemingly focusing his full attention now on you. This action, being the center of Moriarty’s scrutiny, more often than not made you feel like a piece of cornered prey being toyed with. It was a feeling that, having spent so long hunting the most dangerous game in India, you were quite familiar with. It was not a feeling you liked at _all_. A shiver involuntary ran up your spine.

A few moments passed slowly before Moriarty finally spoke. “Between you and I, dear Sebastian…” His voice then dipped low and he leaned forward in his chair, as you instinctively did the same.  “... I do not believe our Master trusts him, either.”

This, frankly enough, surprised you.

The last Master of Chaldea, Ritsuka Fujimaru, was often of the mindset that you would describe as ‘exceedingly foolish’. In your educated and realistic opinion- one grounded in years of experience killing and trying not to _be_ killed- they tended to trust far, far too easily. The fact that they trusted _Moriarty_ of all people was honestly proof enough of that, even when not taking into account the large extent to which they trusted him- sometimes it seemed completely so. They seemed to trust every single servant summoned to Chaldea to at least some unsmall degree, even a shady man such as yourself. Therefore, it was your assumption rather than expectation that they would, in turn, trust Sherlock Holmes.

You voiced these thoughts to your employer.

He hmm’d, and thought for a brief second. “Perhaps that is giving him too much credit. Let me rephrase- they do trust Sherlock. But… not entirely. Much less than they trust either of us, which is saying something,” he smirked. “They used to trust him more, especially after Shinjuku. But ever since then, numerous events and happenings have little by little stirred questions within their mind. Questions which have led to... doubts.”

“And were any of these doubts perhaps sown by you, Professor?”

Moriarty simply chuckled, thankfully more lighthearted than sinister. “Surprisingly enough it may seem to us both, but no. No, our dear Master has come upon and fed these distrusts entirely by themselves.”

He stood then, hands on the armrests as he easily pushed himself out of the chair, and strolled over to his desk. He opened a side drawer and reached in, pulling out a neatly bundled stack of papers, heavily written on and tied together with a single piece of pale blue ribbon. The man idly thumbed through the stack as turned and leaned back against the desk, and began the explanation that you were about to ask for. “A collection of all my notes and observations regarding the dear detective over the years, including those here at Chaldea. His weaknesses, his strengths, what stumbled him, etcetera etcetera. Compiled for our Master… Just in case.”

Moriarty sighed deeply, and glanced up at you. His brilliant blue eyes, full of genius and cunning, seemed to pierce right through you. “Sebastian.” You instinctively straightened in your seat. “As much as you know I detest that accursed man, and how happy I would be to see him dead, or worse, I…” He pursed his lips and seemed to choose his next words carefully. “I hope that our distrusts are unfounded. For Chaldea’s sake, for our Master’s sake, and, I suppose, for humanity’s sake as well.”

Now it was your turn to silently and quizzically raise your eyebrows, but Moriarty did not answer, instead turning away and placing the papers back where they belonged before setting himself to task tidying up his workspace. You sighed, knowing that apparently that would be all you would be getting out of your superior in regards to the subject. You had more than an inkling of what he was talking about, however, with all the good Holmes had apparently done for Chaldea in the wake of the sudden death of the acting director at the time- a man named Romani Archaman. You had never met him, having been summoned to Chaldea long after the storied battle at the Temple of Time, although you had heard quite a bit about the man, especially from the other Servants who had been contracted with the resident Master far longer than you or Moriarty had. Either way, his passing had left a hole in the structure of Chaldea’s workings that Miss da Vinci could not fill herself- a hole that Sherlock Holmes’s newfound presence after the Shinjuku incident would slowly but surely patch. Though, that was giving the detective far more credit that he deserved. James Moriarty was summoned not long after Holmes’ arrival, and the Professor’s genius and mathematical skill helped Chaldea just as much as Holmes’ own mind and grail-given skills did. If anything else, the Master worked significantly better with Moriarty than the arrogant Holmes, for reasons relating to the events of Shinjuku that you had yet to be _entirely_ privy to. Then again, you had never asked the right person, you supposed. The Master had a much looser tongue than your employer or his nemesis.

You tucked that away in your mind as something to inquire about during the next mission, and thusly turned your attention to retrieving your rifle leaning, always close at hand, against the corner of the armchair.

As Moriarty worked at his desk with his own weapons of numbers and formulae, you worked at your own much more physical instrument.

You called it ‘Prometheus’- a custom-made German air-rifle gifted to you by Moriarty back when you were both still alive, being the only birthday present you could really ever remember receiving. Your calloused fingers ran over its surface, pulling at and adjusting its workings. Frankly, you had no idea why you did- serving as your weapon and Noble Phantasm, magecraft always seemed to keep it in the perfect condition you required. It was little more than muscle memory, you assumed, but it was also oddly comforting. It was just like how it was back in London, with Professor James Moriarty at his desk in his elegant study, and you, his loyal right-hand and chief of staff, idly cleaning your trusted gun in preparation for the next poor sap you needed to kill.

  
You are Colonel Sebastian Moran, once the second most dangerous man in London, now a simple summoned Servant of the Assassin class. You do not like Sherlock Holmes, and you certainly don’t trust him. But that’s alright, because you trust your Master, and most importantly, you trust James Moriarty- and that? That was _more_ than enough for a man like you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I skimped on the description this time around, here's a sketch of the best murder boy by yours truly :)  
> https://file.toyhou.se/images/13621292_BFsU9MjtO3FaRg3.png


	3. The Nation

She could feel her memories fading away.

They slipped through her fingers like minnows in a stream, as she was stuck kneeling on the bank with her hands desperately diving again and again into the chill water. The years and decades and centuries began to all blur together into a smelting-pot of faces that she struggled to make out.

Unending lines of white men, features smudged, she knew made up the leaders of her nation- too many of them, she realized with a jolt of panic, she could not identify. They were all whirling as one, the lines between fading, as the fragments of her thoughts attempted to place where one began and the other ended, chunks of four, four, four years, eight years, twelve years- no, too many, too many! Death, just three months shy of the third, years won yet left unclaimed, a replacement, so many replacements, so much death. 

Death, sweet death, the crimson running like rivers, drenching her flag, turning white stripes into naught but a field of red. Brothers dying by brothers hand, stray bullets flying, freedom fought but what for? Leaders falling, dominoes, one by one as men laid down lives that she now walked upon with unsteady steps.

An exposition, American ingenuity! Buffalo, Buffalo- Mr. President, we can’t find the ball-! She screams, mind racing, her thoughts chugging along like a train, derailed, on track, a mourning train, a ghost train, carrying bodies upon bodies, another body fallen as it rolls to a stop at the station; too many trains, too many bodies, metal tracks connecting the country like the veins of blood beneath skin, hammered in place by ones forgotten, the unspeaking, the unspoken for- dynamite blowing apart both stone and flesh, the price of a nation. The applause of a theater does not mask the fire of a gun, the movement of a little finger, blood and brains on a new widow’s dress. Rallying, sinking, dead- something just broke. Was it the dreams of her nation?

The dream is over, over, unknown soldier-! Weeping children, mothers; tomb of whitest marble, the laid wreath is dying, shriveling, coming apart in her hands as she struggled to put the pieces together, but she can’t, she never can, a country divided unable to stand- who said that? She cannot remember. This scares her.

She was scared.

Her country was withering, ceasing to exist as its history was scrubbed away. Her people, snuffed out- and she herself was teetering precariously close to the edge of following them into the abyss. 

She was decaying- she, the great goddess Columbia, representation of liberty and freedom and the soul of America, was dying.

She didn’t know she could do that.

Even as she felt her very body being torn in two as the nation divided in bloody civil war, still she lived- smaller, wounded, missing too many of the people that had made her whole, but alive. Even as her sons fell by the hundreds of thousands on foreign soil, as she wept for boys dying an ocean away from home and their mother’s embrace, she lived. Even as men from across the sea brought diseases and greed to wipe out her native children, massacring them as they were forced to trek across a country stolen from them on bloodied and broken feet, she lived. 

But now, the strength that had guided her through such troubling waters failed her for the first time, and the goddess could feel the poisoned waters fill her lungs. It was the many hands of her people, her children, her citizens that would always be there to grasp her steadfast and pull her out of death’s embrace- but now they were absent, she was alone, and America was a husk bearing only a meaningless name with no people there to speak it. 

Far above her, through the haze of the water she was a figure that she reached desperately towards, crying out, ‘Mother, Mother!’ like a hapless child. ‘Britannia, please!’ But the shield-bearing woman did not respond, and faded into a wind-blown swirl of dust. Columbia realized, with a painful shock that stuttered her pulse, that she was the last one remaining. She was the only one still stubbornly clinging to existence, like she had always done.

Columbia was, for the first time in her life, completely and utterly alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah i know this one is a bit weird, as well as .... very different to my normal writing style. i'm a dumb history major, sue me.
> 
> in order, the major historical references (to individual people) are: the death of FDR, and then the assassinations of McKinley, Garfield (killed at a train station), Lincoln, and Kennedy- the four presidents who were killed by assassination while in office. Also, I put way too many Assassins (the Broadway musical) references in here too, so if you can spot them all, I'll.... give you a cookie or something, idk.
> 
> here's a good song for this chapter https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o9vY8uxU2_U


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